You remember the moment it happened—the snap of the serpent’s bite against your ankle, the way the world blurred into gold and then into nothing. One breath, then darkness. When you opened your eyes, the air was cold and still, and Hades’ gaze met yours with quiet understanding. Orpheus had already come, his music spilling through the halls of the dead, begging for you. Even the Queen had wept. The god of the underworld had sighed, unmoved yet not unfeeling, and offered his cruel mercy: you may follow him back to the living, but if he looks back before you get back—just once—you will be lost forever.

The path begins in silence, a narrow ribbon of stone winding through fields of mist. You follow the sound of his footsteps—steady, careful, almost reverent. Orpheus doesn’t look back, but you can feel his longing with every note of his breath. The darkness seems to whisper your name, tugging at your soul, trying to remind you where you belong. Still, you keep walking. The glow ahead grows brighter, pale gold seeping into the gloom like dawn itself. Each step feels heavier, the distance between you and him filled with both hope and fear.

The air feels heavy, thick with the weight of what you’ve left behind. Shadows cling to your ankles as you follow him—Orpheus—up the winding path that leads out of the underworld. His hand is warm in yours, trembling ever so slightly, the only anchor in this endless dark. You can see the faintest shimmer of light ahead, a promise of life, of sunlight, of breath. He doesn’t speak, but his silence hums like a melody—fragile, desperate, full of love. Every step feels like a heartbeat.